The Soldier Stills
by Chicklette
Summary: One year after the events in Siberia and Bucky and Steve are back in Brooklyn, quietly trying to make a life for themselves. They have friends, a home, and one another. But the world can't stay at peace forever, and when Steve comes home to find the shield waiting for him in the front hall, he knows he has some decisions to make.
1. Chapter 1

AN:

All my gushy love to the mods of the Captain America Reverse Big Bang. They ran a top-notch bang, and I hope they got something other than our whinging out of it! Secondary thanks to the RBB Slack - the most amazing things happened there! I thank you all! 3

This fic is inspired by the gorgeous art created by the lovely Sula Safe Room.

Agent Coop and pqq both offered me invaluable advice while I was drafting this. Tisfan and drowningbydegrees were both good enough to beta. This would be just terrible without them, and for that, they have my thanks.

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Steve walks into the brownstone shaking snow from his hair and stamping it off of his boots. He's grateful to have survived the holidays in the nest of a home he's made with Bucky, but the cold still sets his teeth on edge. He thinks it's the same for Bucky, too. As he enters the living room, he sees the package next to the doorway and his step stutters, then stops. He shakes the snow from his hair and peers at it

Bucky peeks his head out from the kitchen. He's toweling a glass dry, wearing only sweats and a white t-shirt. If not for the messy bun at the top of his head and the shining metal arm, it could be 1942 all over again.

"Tony?" Steve asks, indicating the package.

Bucky shakes his head. "Nah, some goons. 'S From him though, Jarvis let me know they were coming."

Nodding, Steve eyes the box.

"Gonna open it?" Bucky sets the glass down and comes around to Steve's side. Steve feels the pad of Bucky's right thumb as Bucky presses it down Steve's spine, an affection from years ago, when it used to make Steve squirm. Now it just feels nice. Like comfort.

Like home.

"Yeah," Steve finds himself saying. "Yeah, okay."

Steve brings the box to the dining room table and Bucky leans forward, slicing through the tape with his metal pinky finger, one lock of his long hair laying against his cheek. Steve quirks a grin, suppresses a shiver. He loves Bucky's competence. Everything about the man is sexy.

Steve runs a hand over Bucky's back, a thank you in the same way that his squeezing Bucky's hip is a promise.

Steve had never heard the phrase touch starved until he'd started nuzzling into Sam at every opportunity, and Sam put two and two together. Sam pulled Steve into his arms and then he held him and held him and _held_ him, and minutes into it, Steve felt something break inside of him and he'd ended up gasping out a sob, clinging to Sam and trembling.

Years later, Steve recognized that same need in Bucky, and resolved to try to be at least half the man that Sam was. The result is that Steve and Bucky are downright handsy with each other, communicating in touch the way most people do with words.

Bucky flicks the box open and Steve draws a sharp breath. The silver gleams in the clear afternoon light. Steve isn't prepared for this – for seeing the shield – his past…his future? He doesn't even know if he's Captain America anymore, if he even wants that. In the last year, something in him, that need to fight, to prove everyone wrong, to be righteous, has settled. He's not the same man who went into the ice, and he's not the same man who came out of it.

When he picks up the shield, his fingers catch on the slight rim, before he settles it against his left forearm. The handle bites into his palm, soft now from a year of disuse. He has different callouses now, ones that that match the crescents of paint under his short fingernails. He raises the shield, feeling the way his back muscles pull, the twitch in his triceps, the strain on his forearm.

Letting out a shaky breath, he puts it back in the box. Bucky's close enough for Steve to feel his body heat, and he turns into it, pressing his face into the crook of Bucky's neck.

Bucky's arms come around him, stroking up Steve's sides, pressing him closer. After a moment, he says, "Come on, I'm making sandwiches." Steve allows himself be led away.

.

After lunch, Steve goes to his studio to paint. He hadn't touched a paintbrush, a pencil, until one day when Bucky asked him what had happened to his art, and Steve only shrugged. It seemed silly, self-indulgent, wasting time making pictures when there was fighting to be done. A few days later, when Steve returned from the gym, he'd found their spare room had been converted to a studio – easels and paper, canvases, jars of gesso and drawers and drawers of paints, charcoals, pastels. Just the smell of it brought up memories, visceral feelings that Steve had locked down for so long that he'd all but forgotten they'd existed.

The memories hit him like that all the time – things he'd let go of, or denied since coming out of the ice. His role was Captain, Savior, and they all looked to him to lead them. Now he'd seen how they'd turned on him when he took them somewhere they didn't want to go. In the wake of the Accords, of getting Bucky back and helping him through his own mix of guilt and fear, Steve found himself retreating, time and again, to that certain, stoic place that got him this far. He could turn it all off, focus on the task at hand, until it was time to move on to the next task.

It was only when he and Bucky were alone, their bodies moving together, that Steve let himself feel anything other than the press of "what's next."

It surprised Steve, that Bucky saw him, saw how little of that old Steve Rogers was left. That Bucky had done something about it had nearly brought Steve to his knees. It's the simplest thing – just giving him space to be Steve, but he finds himself nearly in tears every time he thinks about it.

He's missed that about Bucky – how smart he is. Steve might have the convictions, might have had the guts, but Bucky, he was so smart. People look at Steve like he's some kind of genius because he has an eidetic memory and is good at strategy. Because he seems fearless.

Bucky was always the smart one though. He see's the bigger picture, he sees six steps past the outcome, and he can see every step to get where he wants to be. Steve counts on his strength and downright mulishness to gut it out and do what had to be done, but Bucky, you tell him the outcome you need and he'll get you there. Bucky sees the details.

Steve lets his hand wander, picking up the thick oils on his brush and using them to create texture on the canvas. He'd say it was mindless, but it isn't. It's a turning in on himself, twisting the world away to nothing, just him and his hands and the pigments, making the pictures from his head come to life under his hands, vivid and raw and everything that he can't let the rest of the world see.

When he emerges hours later, the box with the shield is nowhere to be seen.

"Closet," is all Bucky says, and Steve hooks an arm around Bucky's waist, reeling him in for a rough kiss to the side of his neck, breathing him in before letting him go.

Bucky looks down at his white shirt, now smeared with blues and greens, and cocks a brow at Steve. "Go wash up, punk. And quit ruinin' my shirts."

Steve smiles and presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky's mouth, then wipes his hands on Bucky's shirt before lifting it off of him entirely. Moving close, he kisses Bucky's mouth again, and follows with a soft sigh. He doesn't say I love you.

He doesn't have to.

.

That night in bed, Bucky wraps himself around Steve, making a cocoon of his body, holding Steve safe within it.

It makes him think back to when he was small, the way Bucky would curl around him in bed, force his heat into Steve's skin, letting Steve rest his icy toes between Bucky's calves. It was so much more than the heat of Bucky's skin that warmed him. It was the press of his friendship, knowing that Bucky would do whatever he had to do to keep Steve safe and warm and whole. Steve shivers, remembering those cold nights and Bucky holds him closer, tightens his body around Steve's big frame.

"Buck," he whispers, and presses himself back, further into Bucky's embrace.

It's the only asking he needs to do.

Pressing his mouth to Steve's neck, Bucky lets his hands wander, smoothing down Steve's arm, coming up his stomach and across his pecs. "Like tits," Bucky'd said once, and Steve blushed halfway down his chest. But later, alone in front of the mirror, he'd pressed the muscles together to create a furrow, and shocked himself with images of Bucky pushing against it, fucking against Steve's chest, coming all over him. He finally suggested it weeks later, with crimson cheeks and averted eyes, but Bucky's reaction, the way his breath hitched and his eyes darkened, made the momentary embarrassment worth it.

Now Bucky's stroking his fingers into that cleft, pressing in a way that tells Steve he remembers too, and as good as that is when it happens, it's not what Steve needs right now. Instead, he leans over to his nightstand, before turning on his back and pressing the bottle into Bucky's hands.

"Buck," is all he says, and he lets Bucky take him from there. Bucky sees something in his eyes, he must, because instead of the slow, easy fuck that Steve expects, he gets Bucky in a whole different way. The thick fingers that press into him don't give him quite enough time to adjust. They take, take up space, take Steve to the edge before they leave him, trembling, keening for more. Blunt nails scrape at Steve's skin and Bucky inflicts his wicked teeth and tongue, biting, then soothing, then biting again, until Steve is a mess of sensation, almost sobbing with the need to come.

"Please," he cries, like it's the only word he knows, but Bucky doesn't relent until tears wet the corners of Steve's eyes as he tosses his head back and forth. "I can't, Buck, I can't."

"You _can,_ doll. You can, because I'm gonna _make_ you."

And then Bucky presses into him, thick and hot and hard, and Steve shakes harder, desperate, so desperate to come.

"I need," he pants. "Buck, you have to-" His body bows, tightens, hands fisting the sheets, pulling them from their tucked in corners as Bucky fucks against his prostate.

He's holding on, and he doesn't know why he can't let go, but he can't. He presses the side of his face into the pillow, eyes clenched shut.

"Come on, Stevie," Bucky groans. "Come on doll, let go for me."

And Bucky brings a hand up to Steve's face, and Steve looks into his eyes and there's no place to hide.

"I've got you," Bucky says, and Steve shatters. Shatters looking into the eyes of his best friend. Shatters in the arms of the only man who's ever known him. Shatters into a thousand pieces, into something that can't be put back together and made to fight anymore, into something that might learn to be at peace.

Bucky follows just after, with a strangled groan and Steve's name on his lips.

After they clean up and remake the bed ("Animal," Bucky says, and Steve smirks), Bucky settles onto his back and Steve lays his head on Bucky's chest, listening to his heartbeat, and the oceanic sound of every drawn breath.

"Wanna talk about it?" Bucky offers.

"Maybe tomorrow."

The metal hand strokes through Steve's hair. "Alright, pal," he says. "But I'm holding you to it."

.

Steve feels a little lighter the next morning. Yes, there are things he still needs to work out, but maybe the shield isn't a specter. Maybe it's a path to the future. Whatever comes next, whatever he decides, he knows he has Bucky in his corner. He won't be alone.

He stops by Stella's Bakery on his way home from his run. Bucky prefers the treadmill, but Steve likes to get outside. He likes the fresh air and the smells and sounds of the city as it wakes up. Sometimes he runs at the high school track, but most often he likes to run the Promenade, catch the ocean air and the greenery. There's something hopeful about the early morning peace, something nostalgic in the way the air smells. Something rooted, like he's home.

Walking through the door with a box of Bucky's favorite jelly donuts, Steve's feeling lighter, freer. Which is why the sight of Bucky, leaned over their coffee table, talking in low tones with Tony Stark is the last thing Steve expects to see.

It always surprises Steve at how quickly Tony switches on the charm offensive. Whenever he's engaged with Tony, there's always been that shadow of doubt about how sincere he really is. At first, his glib lines reminded him of Bucky, how smooth Bucky could be with a dame, or when he was trying talk someone into something. But Bucky, there was never any real malice, real selfishness behind his charm. Sure, he'd talked plenty of girls into dates, but he'd never led any of them on. Never – to Steve's knowledge – pushed them to do anything they didn't want to do. It's the difference, Steve thinks, between being charming and smarmy. He knows that Bucky and Tony have been working toward a peace between them. Steve can't say he's done the same.

"Cap!" Tony rises, holding out his hand for a shake. Like it's that easy.

Steve holds tight to the box of donuts, then turns to deposit them in the kitchen. He is not giving Stark one of Stella's jelly donuts. No way.

When he turns to leave the kitchen, Tony is standing there, his face schooled to look blank, but Steve can see the tightness around his eyes.

He looks at Bucky, who gives a nod and then rises. "You good?" Bucky asks. Steve nods his assent and Bucky eases out of the room, back toward their bedroom. Steve knows that Tony and Bucky have been trying to make peace. He guesses from the looks of things that it's going well, but no matter how well it's going, Steve can't shake the image of Tony hacking off Bucky's arm. The pain he'd caused Bucky – how's Steve supposed to forgive that?

Tony must see something in Steve's face, because the slick smile fades as Tony steps forward. "I love what you haven't done with the place," Tony says, looking around.

"Really?" Steve says, because if this is Tony's idea of lightening the mood, he's failing. Steve knows what it looks like. When he'd bought the place on his return to the US, he'd asked the realtor to include the staging furnishings in the purchase price. It was fine, but bland. Steve had hoped that he and Bucky would settle and eventually could redecorate the place, make it their own. But since they've been back, everything's felt so...temporary.

"No, not really. But since this place is straight out of Pottery Barn, what do you say we burn it to the ground and start over, say, at the compound?" Tony's face softens. "C'mon Steve, your rooms are still there. I haven't changed anything."

"Tony," Steve says, because he knows, he knows what it means when Tony calls him Steve and not Cap. He knows an earnest Tony when he's confronted with one; he just doesn't know how to deal with him now.

"You got my special delivery?" Tony asks, knowing full well that Steve did.

Steve steps back, crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"We're going to need you, Cap. The team isn't the same without you. Everyone misses you."

"Really? Because I just saw Wanda and Clint last week. Nat and Sam came for brunch on Sunday, and the Parker kid called to ask if I'd speak at his next assembly. I told him I'd hung up the shield. You can explain the rest of it."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Come on, Cap. Look, the Accords – "

"The Accords were wrong from the beginning, but you pushed them anyway. Did you ever think about that Tony? About why you pushed so hard?"

"I was trying to keep the team together!"

"By doing the one thing that would tear us apart! Jesus, Tony, after everything we've been through, you still won't come clean!"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You wanted the leash because you needed the leash! You lost Pepper, you _created_ Ultron – you wanted those Accords because you can't trust yourself, and you damn well know it."

Tony takes a step back, and Steve feels a brief stab of victory before the feeling of loss sets in again. Tony and the Avengers might not be perfect, but they were his team, his home for the last few years. He doesn't know how to say goodbye.

He watches as Tony steels himself, forcing away the arrogant persona that he retreats into when questioned, making himself vulnerable to Steve, maybe for the first time.

"You're the only one I know who can carry that shield. When you're ready, we'll be waiting."

Steve watches Tony turn and leave, but doesn't move, and it isn't until Bucky's got his arms around Steve that he lets out the breath he's been holding, lets his mind rock with the choice he has before him.

That night, Steve dreams of burning buildings, alien invasions, and Bucky Barnes, falling, falling, falling. He wakes with a start.

"I'm fine," Steve says, when Bucky asks.

"You're not," he answers.

Steve doesn't disagree.


	2. Chapter 2

The nightmares born in winter come to stay through spring. Steve's cold – colder than he's ever been. He's hurt. There's a wound in his stomach, a gunshot to the back of his thigh. Every step he takes comes with the stab of missing, torn flesh. He feels the burn where his skin is torn, feels his own life, hot, oozing from him.

He's afraid.

There is still so much to do, so many to save. How can he help them all?

Bucky wakes him. Gentle hands stroking along his cheeks, curling around his shoulders. He's startled – he'd been in the middle of a fight – but Bucky gentles him down with a soft, "I got you, Stevie. I got you."

It's the same the next night and the next.

The shield in the closet is a harbinger of every bad thing Steve has ever fought. The bad dreams that come with it leave Steve exhausted, but worse are the dark shadows under Bucky's eyes. It's one thing to let Bucky take care of him; it's another to see the cost of it on Bucky's face. Steve's supposed to be saving him, not spending him out, using him up. Steve's supposed to be the strong one, now.

The next day, Steve feels like bees are buzzing under his skin. What he wants is to run a hundred miles, work his body until it threatens to quit, and see if that will get him a few hours of quiet inside of his own head. Instead, he gentles his hands, runs them slow and soft against Bucky's body and tugs him down into cool sheets. He holds Bucky close, tangling his fingers into long, dark hair, easing him to sleep. The ceiling fan puffs cool air against their skin as Steve closes his eyes. He matches his breathing to Bucky's, and while sleep doesn't find him, something inside of him uncurls, stretches itself to fit into the peaceful pocket of the afternoon.

When Bucky wakes and looks at him, eyes soft and muzzy from sleep, Steve feels that tension settle a bit more.

"Okay?" Steve asks, fingers stroking the ridge between metal and flesh.

"Yeah. Thanks." His voice, like the rest of him, is so soft and gruff at once, and so much of everything that Steve wants that he curls down, pressing a kiss to Bucky's lips. Bucky pushes up, into the kiss, and they stay like that, kissing soft and easy as Bucky comes awake in Steve's arms. It could lead to sex. It sometimes does, but sometimes doesn't. Sometimes just this is enough: The fit of one another and the knowledge that now, in this time, they can be to each other what they've always been, but they can do it in the daylight.

A few months ago, fall was heavy in the air, and he and Bucky had been walking down the street, leaves crunching beneath their feet, walking back from lunch at their favorite diner. Bucky reached out and grabbed Steve's hand, and Steve startled for a moment, eyes darting, before he saw the soft smile on Bucky's face and realized that it didn't matter – no one was going to arrest him for being sweet on his boyfriend in public.

Now, there are times when they walk down the street, hand in hand, and Bucky will catch Steve's eye, and they'll grin at each other, silly, stupid-in-love grins, where everything that isn't them falls away to nothing.

It's the prize, Steve thinks. It's what they've won for the lives that they've lived. For what they'd been asked to give.

And like that, the specter of the shield is raised again.

Pressing himself up, he's surprised when Bucky resists, pressing him back down.

"You didn't sleep, did you?" Bucky asks.

Steve lowers his eyes. "No. Not really."

Bucky adjusts, sitting on Steve's thighs, looking down at him. It could be sweet or dirty or so many things, but this time, it makes Steve think of all the times that Bucky sat on him in the past, forcing him to tell the truth about taking his medications, about eating enough, about his newest fat lip. Back then, Steve couldn't escape. He could now, but…

But he doesn't want to.

It's been a long road for the two of them. There were months of Bucky lying about how well he was adjusting, months of Steve pretending to believe him, desperate for the lies to be true. And when the lies unraveled - with Steve finding Bucky huddled in the corner of his closet, or throwing up a meal that was too rich for Bucky's system - devastation. The hurt of discovering that trying to protect one another was only making things worse, not better.

They made their way forward in fits and starts. Steve learning not to press Bucky said no, and Bucky not pushing himself too much, trying to earn that gleam of pride in Steve's eyes.

So Steve knows he can't lie to Bucky now, not after the hundreds of truths, mostly painful, that Bucky's given him, little barbed gifts, stinging lances, opening up wounds so that they can heal.

"When I picked it up?" It hurt my hand." He makes himself meet Bucky's eyes and he realizes he's afraid of what he'll find there.

Captain America is an icon, an institution. Captain America makes fitness videos for school kids and he fights and fights and fights for freedom and truth and justice because – because he was _made_ to do that. Because they gave him a new life and he has to pay for it somehow, doesn't he? And how can he have this life with Bucky, how can he have _this_ if he's not _that?_

Questions he'd never let himself think before flood his mind and he reels forward, pressing his head into Bucky's chest and feeling strong arms come around him. Steve doesn't even notice the difference between metal and flesh anymore. They're both just Bucky, and he needs, he needs – god he needs this man, and he knows then that he'll do whatever they ask, as long as he gets to keep Bucky here, in this time, safe.

It's defeat that pulls the tension from his shoulders, defeat that slackens his hold around Bucky's waist. When he pulls back and Bucky searches his eyes, he's sure that Bucky sees it there, but he doesn't say a word.

That night, Bucky makes spicy noodles with peanuts, ginger and bits of pineapple. It's one of Steve's favorite dishes, he revels in it, in the way that Bucky is still taking care of him.

And maybe this can be enough. Maybe he can fight again, work callouses back across the arc of his palm, the soft, inner knuckle of his thumb. Maybe when he comes home, weary, Bucky will be there with spicy noodles and scratchy kisses and that can be his reward.

It would be enough.

The next day, he takes the shield to their rooftop patio and starts practicing with it again.

The nightmares don't subside.

.

Bucky wakes him with a jolt to the shoulder and he comes to with a gasp. The nightmare is already fading, green ichor, the smell of smoke, and the tang of blood on his tongue.

"Stevie," Bucky says, and this time Steve can't push it away on his own. Most nights he can slow his breathing and calm himself, holding tight to Bucky and willing himself to push the bad dreams out as he breathes Bucky in.

He turns Bucky onto his back, mouth already licking and sucking at Bucky's neck. Bucky's legs fall open and Steve slots himself between them. The need spurs him on, welling up within him, almost painful. He has to get his fingers into something real, or the other things, the hard, hurting things will consume him.

"Stevie," Bucky gasps, and they grind into one another.

"I need," Steve gasps, tugging at Bucky's shorts. "Let me, Buck, please."

"Yeah, come on, baby," Bucky groans.

They both work their boxers down and then it's Steve who isn't gentle, pressing his fingers quickly inside, Bucky hissing at the sudden intrusion, then pressing back, taking them deeper. It isn't enough, and they both know it, but soon Steve is pressing into Bucky, fitting his cock into the tight slick of him, burying his face in Bucky's neck and pushing, pushing, chasing away the gore and the fear, the things that have him like a vice around his heart until he's biting into Bucky's shoulder, crying out with the hot, wet of release, and for those few seconds, he's okay.

As he pulls away, he sees that Bucky hasn't come; he isn't even hard.

It's like a kick to the stomach and he's sick with it.

"Buck, I – Jesus, I'm –" His voice is horrified, even to his own ears.

"No," Bucky says, sitting up. "You think I don't want you, always? It doesn't have to be about getting off, Stevie. It's about being here for you. That's what _I_ need."

"Bucky - that's not - Jesus, no." Steve's almost gagging he's so disgusted with himself. And Bucky, god, what did they do to him that he'd let himself be used like this?

Steve shifts, sitting at the edge of the bed. "I'm so sorry," he chokes out.

"Steve. Stevie, no. I'm not gonna let you do this, pal. You don't get to use me as a punishment too. I was with you every step of the way back there."

"Punishment? That's what you think I do?"

"I know it is, and so do you. You think I don't see you up there? You pick that sheild up and hold it to your chest like it's the weight of the world, and you work it until it flays you." Bucky picks up Steve's left hand, stroking his thumb over the red welt that was an open sore just a few hours ago. "When's it gonna be enough, Stevie? You owe them your flesh? Your blood? Way I see it, you paid your price."

Steve swallows and looks away.

Their room is quiet and still in the predawn hours. Steve sits on the side of the bed, his head hung low on his shoulders, a beaten man. It's fear that's thick in his throat, fear that forces him to say the worst of it, reveal the coward that he is.

"How can I protect us, Buck? If I'm not Captain America, how do I keep us safe?"

"Oh, hell. Stevie. Don't you know that's not your job?" Bucky comes up behind him, holds him, pressing kisses against Steve's neck.

It doesn't fix _anything,_ but Steve loves him for it, just the same.

.

The next day, Steve opens the door to find Nat and her dimples giving him a sarcastic smile. "Stark Delivery Service," she says, and hands him a thick manila envelope.

"What's this?" Steve asks, stepping aside to let her in.

"Political unrest in South America, apparently."

Steve takes the envelope to the kitchen table and opens it, spreading the documents – memos, photographs, schematics – into a wide pile in front of him. Natasha sits across from him, watching him as he takes in the intel.

"Nat," Bucky says, stopping by her side for a one-armed hug and a kiss to the top of her head. Steve glances up to see it, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knows that Bucky and Nat have talked a lot, knows that Bucky considers her a friend, along with Sam and not many others, and it's nice, he thinks, to see Bucky soft with someone else.

"Going for a run," he says, but what he means is that he's giving Steve and Nat some privacy. What he means is 'tell me all about it later.'

When Bucky returns, Nat is gone and Steve is pacing.

"When do you leave?" Bucky asks wiping sweat from his face.

Steve shakes his head. "It's not – this –" He stops, mid-sentence and stock still, his whole body shuddering with the need to move and to be still at once. "We shouldn't be doing this. This isn't Avengers' business."

"What is it?" Bucky asks, and moves toward the envelope to see for himself.

"It's – it's goddamned _politics._ " Steve spits the word. "And oil and gas and, and – it's not – it's not _Hitler,_ " Steve says. "It's not _Hydra._ "

Bucky sits and looks over the papers and Steve looks over his shoulder. Some of the photos are ugly – crying children with dusty, bloody faces. Manipulative for someone like Steve. Some are tantamount to a hit list and some are aerial shots taken to show just how big the operation is. Then there are schematics – blueprints and access points, a subbasement in a building that has no business being in the middle of a jungle.

Steve paces as Bucky takes it in. The tension is all but gagging Steve. This isn't their fight and god, he just – he doesn't want to _do_ this.

He stops short.

"I'm not doing it," he says, shaking his head.

Bucky's head snaps up. "You sure about that? This is – this isn't a bad fight, Steve. Stark's not wrong here."

"Maybe not, but it's not _my_ fight. I'm not going."

Bucky pauses a moment, then shuffles the mess in front of him together. He puts it all back in the envelope and sets it at the far side of the table.

"Alright. You want pizza or Thai? I'm starving."

It's not – it can't be that easy, right? It _can't_ be. Steve swallows and looks around.

"Uhm, burritos?" he asks. "And maybe some nachos or, hey, those taquitos? Those were really good last time, with the pork?"

Bucky nods, stands and walks toward Steve. He moves with the easy grace that has always been Bucky, but he moves now like the Winter Soldier too. Steve feels like prey for the seconds that it takes Bucky to pull Steve into his arms. Steve can feel his own stiffness. He's still braced for a fight because he hasn't said no to Tony yet, but he can't back down from his decision. He said he'd be there when it's important, when it's something that they need Captain America for, but this isn't that. He's sure of it.

Sure or not, the next day he's pacing a circuit through the house, watching television and checking his phone, waiting for news.

Bucky leaves him to it and Steve is mostly grateful; part of him wants a distraction, but doesn't want to have to ask.

In the end, Nat calls him from the Quinjet, letting him know that everything went well and there were no injuries.

That night, he and Bucky toast a couple of beers and sit out on the rooftop patio, watching the sunset over the city. They don't feel the effects of the alcohol, but the setting, the taste of it on their tongues, it takes them back. That restless, tense thing inside of Steve stills a little more. He didn't have to fight anyone today. The bad guys still lost, and all of his friends came home safe. It's a win, anyway he looks at it.


	3. Chapter 3

As spring warms toward summer, Steve finds himself declining the next two missions that Nat brings his way. One is Hydra, and he doesn't sleep the whole night before. The other is some geo-political bullshit that again, Steve thinks they have no business meddling with, and while he still keeps a close watch on things from Brooklyn, it feels less and less like he's needed in any of their fights.

The next time Nat comes to visit, he tells her plain: Unless the sky is literally opening up to let in Chitauri, unless Hydra has found a way to relaunch Project Insight, unless Tony has created another mad robot bent on destroying the world, then no, don't call him.

He calls Tony and offers to return the shield. Stark hangs up on him.

Nat still brings the briefings by, and most of the time, Steve doesn't even look. (Which is a damn dirty lie, because of course he looks, of course, but he does it in the middle of the night, while Bucky's asleep, and he only looks at his phone a dozen or so times. He's not monitoring the situation, he's just…he's just staying informed. That's all.)

.

Steve wakes with a start in the early morning and the bed next to him is cool. The house is silent, strangely so, and Steve pads out to the living room, wondering if Bucky's gone for an early morning run, or maybe out for donuts.

There's no note and while he doesn't panic, Steve does pause a moment to think through the options. It's not until he sees the door to the hall closet ajar that he freezes.

 _He wouldn't,_ Steve thinks to himself, while knowing without question that he would. He would.

Bucky's bag of tac gear is gone. The knives he keeps in kitchen, the magazines of ammo in the ceiling drop, even the spare Sig Sauer from the vent over the bedroom, they're all gone. The box that held the shield is empty.

Steve dents the closet door frame, trying to bring himself back under control.

He turns on the television, brings up the setting for Avengers alerts on his phone and pulls out his laptop. He's scouring social media, plucking shaking scenes out of Snapchat and Twitter feeds, trying to catch a glimpse of Bucky, the shield, anything that will tell him that Bucky is there, that he's sound and alive.

About an hour in, Maria calls. She tells him that Nat gave her the heads up that Steve might want to be more in the loop, and that a courier will bring a com link by within the hour. She'll call if there's anything important before then.

Steve hits end on his phone and paces some more, waiting for the courier. When it arrives, it's a one-way link, and he can't see anything, but at least he can hear that nothing – nothing _terrible_ is happening. It has to be enough.

Bucky returns as night is falling.

The twilight holds everything in shadow, a creeping stillness that makes the scrape of Bucky's key in their lock louder than it should be.

Steve's there as Bucky walks through the door. He looks terrible. There's dirt or grease on his cheekbone, and his gear is filthy. Steve runs his hands over Bucky, pressing fingers against ribs and shoulders, searching for wounds even though anything big would have been reported, and anything small would already have healed.

"I'm fine, Stevie. I'm fine."

Steve pulls back and looks at him and is furious all over again.

Bucky takes a half-step back, then holds, looking Steve in the eye. "Look, I know. Just - can I get a shower first? I know you wanna go ten rounds but pal, I'm dying here."

Pulling Bucky to the bathroom, Steve strips Bucky of his gear. There's a tear in the thigh of his pants, and Steve crouches to inspect Bucky's leg. There's crusted blood and a red line on his skin that Steve knows was bleeding a few hours ago.

Dropping his hands, Steve walks away, leaving the steam from the shower to billow out of the open door. The terror he felt for Bucky's safety is giving way to anger, burning hot and bright. What the hell was the point of everything they'd gone through if Bucky was just going to turn around and get right back in the game?

Twenty minutes later, Bucky's clean and soft in a plain blue t-shirt and sweats. His feet are bare, and something about that, how vulnerable he is, standing there with his bare toes in the carpet, cuts at Steve's heart. His anger fizzles, and the ache in its wake is bone deep. Heart deep.

His voice is sad when he speaks. "How could you do this, Buck? Weren't we doing okay here? Weren't we alright?"

Bucky shrugs, looks down at his hands.

"Stevie, look, you don't wanna get out there anymore, that's okay. That's good. But this is something I have to do. And we coulda spent last night fighting about it and I coulda left here sick to my back teeth of it, or we coulda had the nice night we had, so I could leave here wanting nothing but to come home again."

But Steve hardly hears him for the roaring in his ears. The thing he's been pushing back, it's so, so clear now. He's doing it again - starting fights and letting Bucky finish them. How is he any better than Hydra, doing this to Bucky, still?

Swallowing hard, Steve feels the disgust rising up in his throat again. He stands, because now he is ready to fight. He wants to punch something, anything, rather than feel the tears that smart at the corners of his eyes.

"Didn't mean for you to be ashamed of me, Buck. I thought I was doing the right thing."

"What? Are you fucking - stop - Steve, stop! I have _never_ been ashamed of you." Bucky crosses the room and tries to take Steve's hands in his, but Steve shrugs him off.

"I'm going to go stay with Sam. I can't be here right now." It's fight or flight, and well, Steve already knows he's a coward, especially where Bucky is concerned.

Steve's got his hand on the door, turning the knob when Bucky's on him like a shot. He comes up hard behind Steve, crowding him into the still closed door, holding his left hand over it, keeping it shut.

"Don't you dare," Bucky hisses. "Don't you fucking dare. After everything we've been through, don't you walk out on us now."

Steve bows his head, rests it against the door and sighs. "So now you're the only one who gets to leave?"

It's a fair shot, and Bucky backs away, stung.

Steve turns around and forces himself to meet Bucky's eyes.

"I love you Buck. And probably we'll get past this. But this is my choice, and right now, you've gotta let me go."


	4. Chapter 4

Sam opens the door with a sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Come on," he says, leading Steve to his living room.

Steve looks around. He's always found Sam's home comfortable. It's neat and clean, with books and photos of Sam's family littering shelves here and there. Sitting on the couch, he smiles at the framed photo of Sam and Riley that sits on the side table. Riley has his mouth pressed to Sam's cheek, and Sam's head is thrown back, mouth a wide grin as he holds one hand out as if to block the camera.

Steve wonders what it's like, to be that joyful.

His relationship with Bucky has always been turbulent, intense. Bucky was a grade ahead of Steve in school, an inimitably cooler "older kid." Steve had spent the first few years of their friendship hero-worshipping Bucky. He'd been terrified when his adoration grew into a crush, and by the time he was fifteen, he was lost in love for his best friend, with no hope of it ever being reciprocated. Bucky was the neighborhood lothario, and while he might never kiss and tell, Steve knew him well enough to know what that smirk meant when Bucky stopped to say hello to any of the girls he used to date.

Still, Steve wouldn't be Steve if he knew how to back down from a fight, so at nineteen, fresh off yet another disastrous double date, he found himself confronting the situation when Bucky asked him just what exactly he was looking for in a date.

 _"You don't want to know, Buck. Leave it alone." Steve turned away, heart hammering in his chest._

 _"C'mon, Stevie," Bucky says, his hand on Steve's shoulder, turning him around. "You ain't liked a dame I've picked out for you yet. What gives?"_

 _"Just not my type," Steve said, looking at the floor._

 _"Then what is? What am I looking for, Stevie, 'cause if she exists, you know I'm gonna find her for you."_

 _It's now or never , he thought, and straightened up, squaring off his shoulders and making himself meet Bucky's eyes. He hoped he was right about the tension he sometimes thought he felt between the two of them - something that made his skin spark, made him want to reach out and touch because sometimes, lately, it seemed like Bucky might be feeling it too._

 _"Dark brown hair," Steve said, thinking of the blonde Bucky'd chosen for him that night. "About –" he paused and pulled together the rest of his courage. "About this tall," he said, holding his hand up to the top of Bucky's head._

 _Bucky's eyes widened, but he stood steady._

 _Swallowing hard, Steve said, "Prettiest blue eyes you've ever seen." His voice had dropped to a whisper, and he was sure his bum heart was going to beat so hard that it gave up altogether._

 _Bucky'd gaped at him a moment, before sliding his hand around and pulling Steve flush._

 _"Stevie," Bucky said, his voice a whisper against the roaring in Steve's ears. Bucky pressed a soft kiss against Steve's lips, and Steve - Steve thought he was dying for moment. That he had died, and that all of the good that he'd ever tried for in the world had been rewarded with a single kiss from his best friend, his hero, his love._

"Still miss him," Sam says, indicating the photo in Steve's hand and breaking him out of his reverie.

"You looked great together," Steve says.

Sam ducks his head with a smile. "Got the Dodgers on in ten."

Smiling, Steve lets the warmth of Sam's friendship wash over him.

A short while later, they're eating bowls of pasta with chicken, vegetables, and a rich cream sauce. It's one of Steve's favorites, and from the look on Sam's face, from the nervous energy that Steve can't keep at bay, Sam know that Steve can use a little favoring right now.

When Sam's phone rings, Steve tries not to listen too hard. He hears the "yeah, I got him," and the "I know, I know," and then the "Not dumb enough to get in the middle, here, Barnes. You plead your case to him."

Returning to the table, Sam tucks his phone into his pocket. "Your boy says hi," is all Sam says, before they go back to eating.

The food's done and Steve joins Sam on his patio for a beer. Steve won't get drunk, not even a little buzz, but he says he likes the taste, the memories it brings back. Far be it for Sam to deprive the man.

They watch the sun set low, and listen to the night come alive around them. There's a soft peace to the air, a chill on the breeze but it's warm all around them. Soon, summer will be on them in earnest, but now, it's a perfect late spring night and the only thing Sam needs to do is help out a friend.

"Rogers," Sam says, after letting them sit in peace for a while. Steve knows his turn to talk, and it doesn't matter if he doesn't want to.

"Sam, I can't ask you – you've done enough. More than."

"Still not your therapist, but that doesn't mean I can't be your friend. Your very wise, very insightful friend."

Steve quirks a half smile, looks down at his knees.

"I just don't get it, Sam. I thought all the work he did, the therapy, I thought all of it was so that he wouldn't have to fight anymore. I thought we were – god, I sound ridiculous."

Sam gives him a side-eyed look, one eyebrow raised.

"I thought we were making a life together. And then he does this. And it wasn't – it wasn't even Hydra, Sam. It was – it was just politics."

"How's it go? 'I never thought a difference of opinion in politics was a reason to end a friendship?'"

"You're misquoting Jefferson."

"And you're missing the point."

Steve sighs, leans back in his chair.

"I just wanted us to have – you know, before the war, I was sick all the time, and we were always kind of scraping by. And then there was the war and now, now we have the chance to just be. And we don't even have to hide it – it's okay to just be who we are. No one's going to put us in jail, or even give us a beating for it. I thought we could just…"

"Okay," Sam says, leaning forward. "I'm gonna stop you there. There's folks taking a beating every day in this country over being gay. Hell, you know how hard it was for me and Riley being military? Wasn't even legal until halfway through our second deployment. This ain't the land of milk and honey, okay? We still got problems."

"It's a hell of a lot better than it was." Steve gives him a meaningful look, and Sam nods.

"Okay. But it's still not perfect."

"Is it ever going to be, though?"

"Maybe not." Sam shrugs. "'Til it is, though…."

Steve sighs, studies his hands again.

"Let me ask you this," Sam starts. "I made my peace with Tony Stark, and he made me a new set of wings. You mad at me for any of that?"

Steve looks up, startled. "What? No! God, no Sam. I don't – I don't _begrudge_ you any of this."

Sam's look in return says everything.

"This is different. It's different for him, it's –"

"Steve. Come on."

"No, it is! It's –"

Sam cocks his head, his whole face saying 'are you fucking kidding me?'

"What? Oh – oh fuck you, Sam Wilson."

Sam gasps. "What in the – Steven Grant Rogers made a swear? Well I never!"

Steve flushes crimson. "Oh, just – shut up!"

Sam cracks up, and after a moment, Steve does too.

"You're all wet, Sam Wilson," Steve says, chuckling.

Sam laughs harder, fluttering his lashes at Steve. "Tell me another one, Daddy-O."

"What does that even mean?"

But Sam's too busy laughing to answer, and Steve, after a moment, joins him.

 _._

The next morning, Steve and Sam meet each other at the front door, heading out for a run. In the months they'd spent looking for Bucky, they came to know one another's rhythms and quirks. Steve would keep pace with Sam, but he'd be a cranky fuck after, so Sam usually encouraged him to take as many laps as he needed, and to run as fast as he could. In exchange, Sam got the first shower. (It was a double win, in Sam's book, since Steve usually put on a second pot of coffee while Sam showered.)

It's sometimes hard, when Sam thinks about what might have been. They'd been halfway through a meal at a really nice restaurant before Sam realized he was on a date. Their romance had been tentative and sweet – and short lived. They'd managed to spend all of a dozen nights together before Steve's day job came calling, and once Steve saw Bucky again that first time? That was all she wrote.

Sam couldn't even be mad about it. Steve was a wreck after seeing Bucky, fighting Bucky. Sam tried talking to him about it after, but he could tell by the look on his face – Steve was gone and there wasn't anything to be done about it. Best Sam could do was have the man's back, which he'd done, because Steve Rogers might not have been the right man, but he was a good man, and in Sam's world, you don't leave a good man to fight alone, and you really don't walk away from Captain America when he needs you. And hell, after spending some time with Bucky and getting to know the man, Sam can see it. Bucky Barnes would be easy - so easy - to fall for. If Sam was a fool. Which he is not, thank you very much.

Still, during their Up all Night to get Bucky Road Trip (as Sam had called it in his head – thank you, Top 40 radio), Steve and Sam came close a time or two to falling back into one another. But Steve wasn't ever going to look at Sam the way he'd looked at Bucky, and Sam might not be the smartest cookie, but he knew when he was beat. When everything washed out, Sam was left with a new job that let him do what he did best, some new folks to worry after, and one really good friend.

Who was usually just this side of a horse's ass, but still. A really good friend.

They spend the next two days like that, working out together, eating huge meals (Sam burns some serious calories of his own – that wingpack isn't light, and building the core strength it takes to balance it leaves him sore for days.) It's not until the end of the second afternoon that Sam's about had enough. He might not be Steve's therapist. Doesn't mean he can't be the man's _friend._

"I just don't see why he has to be the one to fight," Steve says. "And he just – he just left, Sam. He planned to leave like that. He didn't even leave a note."

Sam looks at him and Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. "What?" he finally asks.

"Man, you know I love you, right? God help us both, but you're my best friend. You know that, right?"

Steve processes for a moment, trying to see where Sam is going before Sam gets there. "What? Yeah, yeah I know that, Sam."

"I am going to give you a gift, because in two days of talking and talking and talking about the same goddamned thing, you still haven't figured it out, and if I have to hear about how 'he just left, Sam,' and 'he didn't even leave a note, Sam' one more time, our friendship may not survive."

Steve pauses and has the good grace to at least look abashed. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head and looking contrite as anything Sam's ever seen.

Sam holds his hand up to Steve. "Are you ready?"

Steve looks at him with questions in his eyes.

"You are not mad at him for fighting. You might even be a little bit jealous. You are mad at him for leaving you. Again."

Steve's eyes widen with surprise as his cheeks flush. "I don't – no, Sam – it's not –"

Sam holds his hand up. "I did not say this would be logical, Rogers. I did not say this would make sense. But the sooner you come to terms with your _feelings,_ the sooner you and Barnes can move on from this little tantrum you're throwing and get back to being disgustingly in love."

"Sam –"

Sam's face softens. He knows that Steve still gets twinges of guilt over their aborted affair, and most of the time, it's nothing that Sam wants from him. Today is not an exception.

"I've got a date tonight, Steve." His voice is soft, his posture easy. There's something about the way that Steve looks at him sometimes that makes him think that Steve still wonders 'what if' as well.

Steve looks down at the floor a minute, hiding his face. When he looks back up, Sam can see the bittersweet he's feeling, but mostly he just sees that Steve is happy for him.

"You kicking me out?"

Sam smiles, nods. "Yeah, man. I'm kicking you out."

Steve puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You're too good for me, you know."

"Oh, believe me Rogers, I know."

Steve tries to coax a smile to his face, but it doesn't come. Instead, the question that he's terrified of asking pops out instead. "Do you think he's ashamed of me, Sam? That I stopped?"

Wait, what? Oh, _hell_ no.

Steve's got about an inch and a half on Sam, so it doesn't take much for Sam to take Steve's jaw in his hand and force him to meet Sam's eyes. "You know I wasn't his biggest fan. And that was some jealousy but also just some good old fashioned 'be wary of the brainwashed assassin.' But there is no one - _no one_ \- who sees the two of you together that doesn't see how much he loves you. He loves you, Steve. You've got to find a way to be happy, and I think you're on your way there, but man, you've also got to _let_ yourself be happy. And I think that's gonna take you some practice."

Steve sighs. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sam."

"I mean it, Steve. Anyone ever treated one of your friends the way you treat yourself? We'd be cleaning them up off the sidewalk. There's nothing shameful about self-care. You've gotta know that."

Steve shrugs and Sam knows Steve won't take the help, but he'll keep trying because Steve Rogers is one hell of a decent human being in a world where those are in short supply.

"I'm gonna give you Doc Hollings card again. I know you're not going to use it, but Steve? You really should. It could be good for both of you."

Steve presses his lips to a thin line, then nods. "I know you're right, Sam."

Rolling his eyes, Sam chuckles. "But you're still not gonna call. Rogers, you're a hot mess of your own making."

Shrugging, Steve pulls Sam into a tight hug. "Love you, man."

Sam pats him on the back. "I love you, too, my emotionally constipated, super-dork. Call me tomorrow."

"I will."

"Uh huh. You leaving or what, Rogers? I still have to shower!" Sam lets the smile back into his voice.

It only takes Steve a few minutes to tidy up Sam's guest room and get out of Sam's hair. Standing with his hand on the door, he turns to Sam.

"Out of curiosity, what's his name?"

Sam laughs. "Excuse you, _her_ name."

Steve's mouth drops and Sam barks a laugh. "And I'm not telling. Don't need you jinxing it."

"Sam!"

"Out, Rogers. O-U-T out!"

Steve laughs. "I'm going, I'm going. Just make sure I'm invited to the wedding."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Love you, man."

"You too, Sam."


	5. Chapter 5

The late afternoon air is warming up and Steve smells the coming summer in every green thing growing near their little brownstone. He approaches the front door, nerves tense and snapping. Every footstep thunders in his ears, and he tries to make his movements light, light. He keys open the lock to their apartment.

Bucky's pushed himself into the back corner of the couch, whole body angled toward the front door. Steve can see he's keeping watch and it makes his heart fist up because angry or not, he never wants to hurt this man.

"Steve?" Bucky's half off the couch already, eyes red and bleary and the thick line of stubble across his jaw. Steve has just enough time to close the front door before Bucky is on him, arms tight around his neck, pressing his whole body against Steve as though he can somehow get inside and live there.

"I'm sorry," Bucky whispers as Steve brings his arms around him. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and Steve feels him tremble.

"Hey, Buck," Steve whispers. "Hey." Bucky slides his hands down to fist Steve's hoodie, pressing his face into the crook of Steve's neck.

"I'm here," Steve says, holding Bucky tighter. He takes in everything, Bucky's unkempt hair and face, the sweats and t-shirt that Steve saw him in last, the way Bucky is almost shivering, almost crying, and presses a kiss to the top of Bucky's head. It wasn't a mistake to leave, but he's unhappy about the cost. He holds Bucky for what feels like forever, breathing him in – the smell of unwashed skin and the perfume of his own body chemistry, that thing that tells Steve he's home every time he smells it.

"I've never been anything but proud of you, Stevie. You gotta know that. You gotta."

Steve holds him tighter. He'd make a fortress of himself if he could, if it would keep the hurt out for both of them.

Kissing the top of his head again, Steve asks "When's the last time you ate?" He feels Bucky shake his head against Steve's chest. "Come on."

He's quick in the kitchen – a cheese omelet, toast and the sweet cherry jam that Bucky favors. Steve picks at his toast, watching Buck eat. It reminds him of the days when he'd first brought Bucky here, how Bucky watched Steve eat like he was learning how again, and Steve had all but measured and weighed the food that Bucky consumed, never sure if he was getting enough, knowing he wouldn't complain if he wasn't.

Bucky tears through the omelet and Steve makes a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. They're fast and easy, and both of them are gluttons for the smooth, melty cheese that Sam calls junk, but that tastes like home to Bucky and Steve.

Steve watches him eat, watches as Bucky comes back from the scared, vulnerable creature and puts on the layers that make him Bucky again. Steve's Bucky. It's like watching him come back into his skin, from wherever it is he goes when he's sad or angry or scared.

Bucky's finishing his second sandwich, washing it down with a cold glass of milk when he finally speaks.

"Alright, Rogers. You're either dumping me for being a dumbass, or you're ready to make up. Don't keep me in suspense, pal." The words are gruff, but Steve hears the sentiment behind them and his heartbeat doubles once again.

Steve draws a deep breath and exhales. "It wasn't right, you leaving like that."

"I know."

"Then why?"

"Steve…it's not…you don't…."

Steve watches his friend, his lover, struggle for words, and knows that leaving like he did has cost them something, something precious, and now he's going to have to try to rebuild it.

"Just say it, Buck. This is me."

"You don't know how to _try_ at something," Bucky says, meeting his eyes. "You don't know how to give a little bit, once you've decided to do something. And that's not saying you won't fail sometimes, but you also don't know how to stay down." Bucky wipes a hand over his face and Steve listens to the rasp of his rough fingers against the stubble on his jaw. "You don't know how to stay down, and it'll kill you someday, Stevie. I'm saying that as your best friend and the man who loved you even when I didn't know my own name. It'll kill you someday."

"Buck, I-"

"Stevie, no. It's good you stopped. I'm glad you stopped. I don't gotta worry you're not coming home some night, that it's gonna be Sam or Nat at the front door and not you. And I know – I – I know what it was probably like for you, watching me go fight a war and knowing you couldn't come, couldn't have my back like you always did.

"But Stevie, you don't got the blood on your hands that I do. And nothin' I do but fighting is going to make up for the things I've done."

Bucky's studying his fingers, lacing and unlacing them, picking at the cuticle of his right thumb and Steve marvels at the technology while he tries to take in what Bucky's said, because what he's saying, god, what he's saying….

"You can't believe that, Buck. You can't. There's not – you're not responsible for what happened to you. _You_ didn't hurt _anyone_ , Buck. Not anyone."

"Stevie, come on." Bucky holds out his hands, the plates in his left arm humming. "These hands have done murder. They're my hands, and I gotta atone for that somehow."

Steve bristles.

"I know you don't – I know you don't _believe_ anymore, and I don't know that I do either because what kind of God – what kind of God lets a monster like me on the loose? A monster like Zola? But even if God ain't up there, Stevie, I still know right from wrong and I know I got a long way to go to get to even."

"You – god, Bucky." Steve feels tears welling up and tries to force them back. "Please don't think like that, Buck. I don't want you to think like that."

His mind rears away from the thought, the idea that Bucky, this beautiful man, could hold himself responsible for the terrible things that Hydra did to him. With him. Hydra, Project X, anyone who handled Bucky like he was a thing and not a man, they are the one responsible. A quake of nausea shudders through Steve as his mind calls up images of Bucky in the chair. He closes down the image and focuses instead on the man in front of him. Stronger than he could ever be. His very heart, before him.

Bucky reaches across the table and takes Steve's hands in his, warm flesh mixed with cool metal. "I gotta be right with myself, Stevie, and you can't do that for me. I know you would if you could, but you can't. I didn't even want to come near you until I was right, you know that, but I couldn't – being close to you again – I don't think I can do this without you, pal. I know I don't want to."

Steve buckles a little at that, bows his head and slumps his shoulders. "I don't want you fighting, Buck. The Avengers – they're a good thing in this world, but – you're special and I don't – I want you have – I don't want them to use you. Use you up."

A soft smile lights Bucky's face. There's understanding and some sadness there. "I know you're tryin' to find your place again, Stevie. But so am I. You gotta trust me to do that, like I'm trusting you."

"If I'm gonna trust you, then you gotta start talking to me, Buck. You're supposed to be - we're supposed to be _partners._ "

When Steve came out of the ice, the thing that surprised him most wasn't the way that the world had changed. That was something he'd expected, once he got his head around it. What surprised him the most was the way that the language had changed. When Nat asked if he wanted a friend with benefits, he'd had no idea what that meant. But something that caught his attention – something that he'd liked – was the way that people now had partners. He was smitten with the idea of it. Sure, someone could be the love of your life, but that didn't mean they were any good for you, that didn't necessarily mean they were your partner. Partner implied equality. Someone who is on your team, who could help…who could help shoulder the burden.

"You're supposed to be on my team," Steve says, and he lets the hurt and the anger show. He lets Bucky see his disappointment.

"I didn't -." Bucky starts. "That's not what I meant."

"I know. But you did it. And now we have to do better."

And maybe that's how it would be sometimes. Maybe they would have to hurt each other now and again in order to get themselves whole. And maybe once they were whole, they could heal the hurt that they caused.

"Pal, I can feel you thinking all the way over here."

Steve looks up and see's the teasing in Bucky's eyes flare before it fades.

"You're not responsible for me, Stevie. Not now any more than I was for you, back then. It wasn't right, the way I left for the war like that, not without saying what we were to each other, and it wasn't right the way I pushed you away after you came and got me in Azzano. And it ain't right now, the way you keep trying to think for both of us."

Steve shrugs. When Steve finally got Bucky back, he'd been a mess. It was months before Bucky would ask for anything – anything – for himself, and Steve had worn himself out trying to anticipate Bucky's needs. It still caught him up short some days, that he didn't need to do that anymore.

"Leaving like I did - that wasn't right. I'm sorry, Buck."

Bucky nods, and lets go of Steve's hands, settling back against the chair, waiting Steve out.

Steve watches his hands as he speaks. "But you left me first, Buck. You left me and you keep leaving, and you – you – you can't just leave like that, okay?"

He peeks up at Bucky, who's looking at him like he just said something shocking.

"I – is that…Stevie, you thought I _left_ you?"

"Not the way you're thinking, no, Buck, but – okay, when you shipped out, back in the war? You told me two days before you had to go. And then when you fell, and I know that's not the same, but you were still gone, and after I found you again and, God, Buck, we looked everywhere for you, and you kept popping up and going back under. I felt like I was losing my mind out there. I know Sam thought I'd lost it – he had to have."

"Jeez, Stevie, you know why I – it's not like what you think."

Steve levels him with a gaze. "Now who's thinking for who?"

Bucky winces, contrite. "Sorry."

"Thing is, Buck, maybe I spend so much time trying to think for both of us because you don't let me in like you think you do. So I gotta try to figure out what your next move's gonna be, so you don't leave me behind. I want this – I want you to be my _partner_. We can't be that if we don't talk to each other."

And there it is. Steve feels like something deep and painful has been lanced and it hurts, god, it fucking burns, but the pain, the _ache_ of it, it's out in the open now, and he feels relief.

And Bucky, Bucky looks like he's just picked up a hot poker with his bare hand: it's his and he has to hold it, but it hurts all the same.

They're both quiet after that, subdued. Steve calls the deli for delivery, and they spend some time picking at sandwiches, saying nothing. When they tire of the choking silence, Steve takes Bucky by the wrist and leads them to bed.

The distance between them is an ocean. Bucky's looks at him with wide, sad eyes and something inside of Steve howls at that.

"Buck," he says. His voice sounds low and choked to his ears. He pulls Bucky in, scrapes his hand along Bucky's jaw, and tilts his chin up.

"Never meant to hurt you, Stevie." There's a mile of contrition in Bucky's eyes. Steve recognizes it - the pain from knowing you've hurt someone you love, knowing it was an accident. It's different when you hurt them on purpose, when you know you'll hurt them, but you have to do what you're doing anyway – then it's just a rotten side effect. Hurting them on accident, well, that means it could happen again, that you can cause this kind of pain without seeing it coming. It can make you feel careless with what's precious.

"I know, Buck," he says, because he does. "Come on and make it up to me."

Bucky presses his mouth to Steve's and Steve's heart gives a little flutter. _Will it always be like this_ , he wonders. Will he always just want Bucky, want his mouth on his, their bodies pressed together. Will it always be this _thrilling?_

They pull each other's clothes off and chase each other onto the bed. Bucky's gorgeous, tongue tangled and hot against Steve, clutching and pressing, his hands digging into Steve's ass as they rut against each other. Bucky makes a sound, small and almost hurt, and Steve reaches down to trap their cocks in his hand. It's rough and inelegant and neither of them cares as hunger turns to need. Bucky, always so verbal during sex, is reduced to nothing but grunts and moans as Steve fists his other hand into Bucky's hair, holding his head so Steve can get at his mouth. It's so fast. Bucky's tongue stills and he cries out, slicking Steve's hand with his come and then Steve's coming too, curling up into Bucky, shooting all over the both of them before his muscles go lax and he lays limp across the bed.

They clean up with a t-shirt ("We're disgusting," Bucky says. "Don't care," Steve replies.) and then Steve lays down and pulls Bucky into his arms and they sleep like that, Steve's heartbeat thudding in Bucky's ear, Bucky's body, solid, weighing Steve down.

It's a truce. It's what they've got.

.

The next time Nat comes with a package, she brings pirozhki for Bucky, nachos for Steve, and Sam.

"You can't bribe me with nachos," Steve says.

Nat arches a brow and hands him a container of salsa verde.

"Is this from Marta's? On Franklin?" Steve's eyes are wide.

Nat quirks a grin. "There's another tub of it in the bag."

"I love you," he says, face softening. "Stark can still go right to hell, though."

"He's not all bad," Nat says, pressing another package into Steve's hands. He sets down the salsa to find a com link, as well as pass codes, schematics, and everything he'd need to be fully informed about a mission that he has no intention of joining.

"Maria's working this one from the tower," Nat says. "Friday will let you up, if you want to come." She turns to Bucky who is eating the pirozhki with a look of bliss. It reminds Steve of the face Bucky used make when he'd have his first bit of his Ma's banana cake with penuche icing. It was always too rich for Steve's stomach, but the way Bucky ate it, you'd think he was tasting heaven.

As Nat and Bucky sit down to go over the mission with the box of pirozhki between them, Steve and Sam head out to the patio. Sam hands Steve a beer as he sits, and the two watch the city come to life as the sun sets low in the sky.

"You okay, man?" Sam asks.

Steve shrugs, sips his beer. "I don't understand it, but, I guess I don't have to. He's gonna do what he's gonna do."

Sam's mouth makes that funny, downward buckle that it makes when he's unhappy on behalf of someone else.

"Can I ask you something?"

Steve lifts his eyebrows and the bottle to his lips, telling Sam to go ahead.

"Why's it okay for me and Nat, but not him?"

Steve sighs. He's thought about this. He's thought about it six ways from Sunday, and no matter how he comes at it, it's always the same.

"Remember that first time I came down to the VA? You asked me what made me happy?"

Sam nods. "You said you didn't know."

Steve nods. "Well it's not – he doesn't make me happy, you know, but I can't – I can't be happy without him. I'm just not wired that way."

Sam whistles low. "Man, I'd say that's a hell of a burden to put on another person, but I get the feeling he kind of feels the same."

Shrugging, Steve takes another sip of his beer and swallows, lips twisting to an almost frown. "Can't tell him no. He's not a kid, and he's not – I'm not gonna be the one who tries to own him, not after… not after everything. S'not alright though." He shrugs again.

"I feel like I should tell you," Sam starts then pauses, weighs his words. "He was good out there, man. Like, scary good. I don't think you have to worry so much, you know?"

Steve huffs a laugh, the bitter smile back on his face before he turns to look Sam in the eye. "Sam, you could carve my damn heart out of my chest, throw it in a lunch sack and tell me you were taking it out for some fresh air, and I would worry less than I do when he goes out to fight." Steve sighs, leans back in his chair. "'S not rational. But there it is."

Shaking his head, Sam chuckles low. "Gotta tell you, you're making it real easy to not regret the way things went down with us."

It startles a laugh from Steve and Sam draws back, watching him.

"What?" Steve asks, smile still playing on his face.

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing man. Nothing at all. Is it getting any easier?"

Steve sips his beer, watches Bucky and Nat through his lashes.

"Yeah. Not a lot. But, yeah."

.

Two days later, Steve is awake before their alarm goes off. He lays facing Bucky, taking in the man he once thought he'd never see again. There's a line of scruff at Bucky's jaw, and Steve wants to run his fingers over it. Wants to, but doesn't want to wake Bucky, not if he doesn't have to.

He's humbled when he thinks about what Bucky has gone through, what he still goes through. He's seen the moments when Bucky acts on instinct, muscle memory taking over when they're sparring, Bucky lashing out to take Steve down. He's seen the way Bucky's eyes clock every entrance and exit of every new room he enters, and he's sure that sometimes Bucky enters their home through the duct work rather than the front door, even though Bucky denies it.

Through all of that, though, he is a man who still has Steve's back, no matter the situation. Who still holds doors open for ladies, and who brings home bouquets of flowers just to see Steve smile at them and call Bucky a dope. He's a man who's fought decades of training and conditioning, so that he can stand by Steve's side, and he's a man who's willing to fight so that Steve doesn't have to. How can he ever be worthy of this man?

Watching Bucky, he sees his slow rise to consciousness and counts that as a win. Once upon a time Bucky went from napping to waking in a moment, and it was days and days on end before he finally went deeper down into real, resting sleep. When Bucky blinks his sleepy eyes at Steve, Steve smiles and nuzzles close to press a kiss to the corner of Bucky's mouth.

"I am so in love with you," he whispers, and Bucky's whole face melts into a soft, sleepy smile.

"You know you're not alone there."

Smiling, Steve nods against the pillow.

"C'mere," Bucky whispers, and puts his hand on Steve's hip, pulling him closer. Steve brings his arms around Bucky, pressing his forehead into the crook of Bucky's neck. He pushes soft kisses against Bucky's chest as Bucky's fingers lace through Steve's hair.

This is enough, he thinks to himself. This is everything.

Bucky tugs at his hair, pulling Steve up for a warm kiss. Bucky's skin is hot under Steve's fingers, and he wants, he wants….

"Let me make you feel good, baby," he whispers against Bucky's lips. He feels Bucky's smile and follows as Bucky rolls onto his back.

"We got time?" Bucky asks.

"I'll make time," Steve answers, and covers Bucky's neck in hot, sucking kisses that make Bucky gasp.

"We don't need that much time," Bucky says, then gasps again as Steve's mouth find his chest, and his tongue flicks over one of Bucky's nipples.

"Doll," Bucky whispers, and Steve groans, his hand drifting down to Bucky's cock. Bucky's already half hard, and it doesn't take much before he's pushing it up into Steve's hand.

"What do you want?" Steve asks, kissing his way down until he's nuzzling up against Bucky's cock. "Anything you want," he whispers, lipping at the hard flesh, taking in his scent.

Bucky groans, pushing his head back into the pillow. "Want you inside me," he says, "But…"

Grinning, Steve huffs a laugh against Bucky's balls. "C'mon babe, you don't want my come leaking out of you while you're sitting on the Quinjet?"

"Stevie," Bucky whines. "Come on."

Steve leans up and over Bucky, grabbing the bottle of lube from the nightstand. He coats his fingers and reaches down, opening himself in the most perfunctory way, keeping his eyes on Bucky's the whole time.

Bucky's got his hand on his cock, not stroking really, but playing his fingertips against it and palming his balls. Steve's eyes flutter down and he sucks a breath just looking at the contrast of metal on Bucky's sensitive skin.

"Jesus, Buck," Steve says, then bats the hand away. He coats Bucky's cock with lube then holds it steady as he lowers himself.

The room is quiet as Steve works him in, just their breathing and the still of the predawn hour.

"Stevie," Bucky breathes, and threads his fingers into Steve's. "You don't even know," he says, and Steve lifts up and Bucky thrusts and it's quiet, quiet, just their bodies together, caught in one another's gaze, heavy breaths and the slide of skin.

Steve rolls his hips and leans back, tosses his head back and groans, taking Bucky deep and holding him there. It's exquisite, always, the way Bucky fills him, and no matter how deep, Steve always wants more. It makes him crazy, desperate every time, needing to both be inside of Bucky and have Bucky inside of him at the same time. He'll never get enough.

Bucky's hands are on Steve's hips, moving them as he presses his heels to the mattress, thrusting up, getting deeper inside. "Oh, honey," Bucky moans, his low voice breaking the silence. "Christ what you do to me."

Steve wants to pick up the pace. He wants to ride Bucky hard and fast. But he also wants it slow and slow and slow. He wants it to never end.

Pitching forward, he catches Bucky's mouth with his – hot, sweet and wet, they groan into each other's mouths. The pleasure builds, slow and sweet, until they are breathing hard, trading soft sounds from the backs of their throats.

"Please," Steve whispers, and Bucky rolls them to their sides.

"Yeah?" Bucky whispers, their bodies starting to slick with sweat as they writhe against each other. Bucky's barely inside of him like this. Steve's dick is trapped between them and he groans as it slides against Bucky's skin.

"That's right, sweetheart, that's so good." Bucky thrusts again and then pushes Steve onto his back. Steve's legs wrap around Bucky's waist, arching his back, letting Bucky in. Bucky pushes up on his elbows, studying Steve's face, and Steve is so exposed.

"Buck," he says, because he wants this, he needs this. He wants Bucky to see him, inside every dark corner; he wants Bucky to take anything he needs.

"Oh, Christ," Bucky whispers. "Oh, _Christ._ " The look in his eyes, god, it sends Steve reeling and then his hand is on his cock and then he's coming and he can't – _he can't_ – he can't look away, because Bucky is there too, right there with him and Bucky breathes out as single sharp moan and then stills, and Steve sees it all, the way Bucky's eyes roll back and his lashes flutter, mouth open in a wordless cry.

As he comes down, he drops his forehead against Steve's, and they breathe each other's air, both feeling wrung out and boneless, but easy and sweet. Bucky presses a kiss against Steve's hairline, then his temple, then his cheek.

"Good morning," he whispers against the corner of Steve's mouth, and Steve can feel Bucky's smile, the curve of his lips. "When I get home," he says, "you're getting inside of me."

"Come home in one piece and I'll fuck you so hard you'll still feel it tomorrow."

"Oh sure," Bucky smiles. "Sweet talk a sailor just as he's shipping out."

That pulls a chuckle from Steve, and then a groan as Bucky slips out. "Jerk," Steve says, his face soft with affection.

"Punk," Bucky whispers back, before pressing a kiss against Steve's lips. "I love you," he says then, and Steve feels it, piercing in his heart and warming his body, sees it shining in Bucky's eyes.

Steve nips another kiss against Bucky's lips before pulling away. "Get outta here," he says. "Gotta shower up or we'll both be late."

Bucky grins and slides away, pulling Steve with him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You're coming with me."

Steve grumbles but secretly thrills at how much Bucky seems to want him too.

As they shower, their alarm goes off inside their empty room.

The op goes better than expected. Maria focuses on back up - ensuring that weapons are at full power, monitoring Tony's droid army and keeping an eye on the number of incoming hostiles. Steve watches from his console: a 3D display mapping the area, with symbols for each of the team. Steve spots the small red star and focuses in. With a tap, he's able to expand the view, bringing him a ghosted outline of Bucky. Steve knows he's wearing the Captain America suit. They'd all agreed that if he was carrying the shield that he should go the distance.

Steve…Steve doesn't know how he feels about any of it. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want anyone to have to fight. But loving Bucky, taking him as he is, that means honoring his choice, and the simple fact is there isn't anyone he would trust with the persona of Captain America more than he trusts Bucky. And there's no one he'd trust with Bucky's life more than the Avengers, Tony Stark notwithstanding. Steve tries to trust that all of these things can come together in a way that helps rather than hurts.

Watching the screen, Steve sees the moment that a Hydra agent spots Sam's unguarded flank.

"Sam, eight o'clock! Buck!"

Sam's wings shield his back as Bucky raises his Sig Sauer. He throws the shield as Clint says "I got it," and releases an arrow that doesn't miss.

"Thanks, Cap," Sam says, and Steve isn't sure if Sam's thanking him or Bucky. It hits him hard - he's been Captain America, the Star Spangled Man with a Plan for most of his adult life, and the entirety of his time in this strange, new world. Who is he without the shield? Who is Bucky with it?

Huffing out a breath, he puts the idea away as he watches the team finish their work.

That night, Steve beats Bucky home by about an hour. He could have stayed at the tower and waited. He thought about it, pacing, until Hill told him to sit down or get out. He couldn't stay without making some kind of peace with Tony, and he's not ready for that yet, so he leaves and paces in their living room instead.

When he hears Bucky in the hall, he's got the door open and a moment later, Bucky in his arms. Steve exhales hard – he's been holding his breath since he and Bucky walked out the front door that morning.

"Okay?" Steve asks, and he's running his hands over Bucky's body, checking the suit for tears.

"Steve," Bucky says, and he's squirming around Steve's hands. "Stevie, I'm okay, I'm okay." He grabs Steve's hands and Steve looks into his eyes and what he sees there – what he sees takes his breath away, because Bucky is there and whole and there's this light – this light in his eyes that Steve has never seen before, or at least not in so, so long – and Bucky's – god, Bucky's happy.

Steve opens his arms and Bucky comes to him, resting his head against Steve's shoulder. Bucky exhales a shuddering breath and Steve pulls him in, holds him close. He brings his hand up to stroke against Bucky's hair, teasing out the band that holds it back. His fingers rub against the stubble along Bucky's jaw, and he feels Bucky relax, feels him let the exhaustion come forward. Steve knows that feeling, the way the adrenaline can just drip out of you, leaving you drained, washed up on its shore.

Pressing a kiss to Bucky's forehead, Steve draws back. "Bath?" he asks, and Bucky nods.

Maybe the way forward can look like this: Steve taking care of Bucky, being what Bucky needs from a partner, and giving it with love. Steve's realized that he doesn't have to fight every battle himself, but maybe there a few battles left on the homefront that he can cede as well. Maybe in finding his own peace, he'll make a space for Bucky to find his, too.

A few days later, Nat shows up on his doorstep with another envelope.

"I'm beginning to think you're in the wrong line of business," Steve says, opening the door and letting her in.

"You and me both." Nat gives him a chagrined smile before walking to the dining room table.

"Hey Buck," Steve calls. "Nat's here."

"Actually, I'm here for you, Rogers. Have a seat."

Steve gives her a quizzical look, but sits down across from her.

Opening the envelope, Nat slides a folder over to Steve. There's a golden olive tree on the cover, with a white dove sitting prominently on one of the branches. When he gives Nat a questioning look, she only smirks and nods her head at him.

Pulling out a press release, Steve stills as he reads:

 _"The D. H. Makepeace Foundation is pleased to announce that as of August 1, Steven G. Rogers will be joining us as Executive Director."_

Steve looks up. "Nat…"

"Keep reading," she says, a dimple creasing at the corner of her mouth.

 _"Rogers, most famously known by his Avenger's pseudonym, Captain America, has laid down the shield in order to, as he terms it, "wage peace." As Executive Director, Rogers takes on the responsibility of awarding over $1.2 billion dollars per year in grants, stipends and charitable scholarships, and stewarding the $98.6 billion dollar endowment._

 _Founded in 2015 by a large, anonymous gift, the D. H. Makepeace foundation has distributed over $16 billion dollars in awards ranging from individual scholarship for students in need, to supplementing Head Start and Jump Start programs, to providing clean water infrastructure in economically disadvantaged countries._

 _With a core philosophy of "Peace through People," the Makepeace Foundation seeks out those who would change the world for the better, be it through scientific innovation, artistic endeavor or simply providing a meal for someone in need._

 _'My faith is in people," Rogers said. "Individuals. And I'm happy to say that, for the most part, they haven't let me down.'"_

Steve puts the paper down, hand shaking.

"This is Tony's doing?"

"Pepper, actually. When I dumped all of the SHIELD and Hydra data, we found, god, Steve, we found so much money. Pepper created the endowment with it. She's been running it, but it needs a public face, and…and we thought this would be a good match. You can be involved as little or as much as you'd like, Steve. Pepper said she'd be comfortable with whatever direction you choose. If you want it, it's your baby."

"But Tony knows about this? That quote…."

"I didn't ask. But Pepper and Tony, I think they're trying to work things out again."

Steve nods. "I'm glad for that." He finishes reading over the press release.

Something about this feels good, he realizes. Feels right. Still, since he got here, this place and time, people have been trying to give him what _they_ think he needs. Life as an Avenger. Life as a fighter. And now this new thing, and Steve isn't sure if it's what fits, or what's easy.

"I can't just say yes, Nat."

Nodding, Natasha picks up the folder, slides over a contract. "I know. But look over the contract, the position description. Think it over at least? I think this could be good for you, Steve."

He feels Bucky come up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder while he leans over to read the press release.

"Who is D. H. Makepeace?" Bucky asks.

Nat quirks a brow. "Destroy Hydra. Make peace."

Bucky barks a laugh as Nat grins. "Thought you'd like that," she says. "Promise me you'll really think about it," she says, looking at Steve with soft eyes.

Steve's mouth tightens to a thin line and Bucky squeezes his shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, Nat. I'll think about it."

That night in bed, he and Bucky talk over the possibilities.

"What would I even do with that much money?" Steve asks. "How could I even start to know what to do?"

Chuckling, Bucky's lays his head on Steve's chest, metal fingers stroking up the column of his neck. "Remember before the war when we working three and four jobs just trying to make rent? If you'd told me then that you'd be sitting on a few billion dollars to get rid of, I'd've laughed in your face."

"I know. It's crazy. I mean, we live in this house that's nicer than our whole apartment building was. And the stuff you can get at the grocery store – you can get a whole, fresh pineapple for less than one of Nat's fancy coffees."

"But to be fair, that smoked butterscotch thing was out of this world."

"It reminded me of my Ma's butterscotch pudding."

Curling close, Bucky gives Steve a full-body hug.

"I could have bought – geez Buck, I could have bought so many supplies with that kind of dough. I mean, pastels and water colors, I could have paid for lessons without having to muck out the men's at Shorty's on the weekends…you wouldn't have had to pick up those graveyard shifts…I can hardly imagine it."

"This is startin' to sound like an answer, Stevie. You sure?"

Steve tightens his hold on Bucky, tangles their legs together. His fingertips press into flesh and rub against metal and it's nothing at all like he thought it would be, but it's good. Before Bucky, Steve was nothing so much as a man out of time. Now, he's starting to find his footing. He's not the man he thought he would be, but there's no shame in who he is.

Spring is slipping into summer, and everything is warmer.


	6. Chapter 6

"Do you have anymore lights?" Nat's holding a string of party lights, creating ambience, as she calls it, by draping them around the rooftop.

"Not my department," Steve answers, setting down a pair of kegs into a couple of buckets of ice.

It was Bucky's idea for the party. Clint asked what the various Avengers were doing for the July 4th holiday, and Bucky was damn near apoplectic that Steve hadn't told people it was his birthday.

"I mean, we knew it was Captain America's birthday, but like, I thought that was just a PR thing," Scott said.

Once the team realized that it was Steve's actual birthday, they'd insisted on a party. Steve demurred, but Bucky shouted the loudest, and Sam sealed the deal by promising several dozen of his mother's famous peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. ("And Steve," Sam said, in all seriousness, "you do not forgo a chance at Pam Wilson's peanut butter cookies.")

Which is how Steve and Bucky find themselves lugging rented tables and chairs up to the rooftop patio while Nat strings lights. Sam is bringing cookies, cake and various sweets, and Clint and Wanda arranged for the food, which makes Steve vaguely nervous.

"Just…is he going to get things other than pizza?" Steve asks.

"If he values his life," Nat replies, so Steve tries not to worry about it so much.

As evening falls and people arrive, Steve takes a moment to look around. There are tables laden with food from all over – pizza and spring rolls, nachos with Marta's famous green salsa, something called "larb" that Steve picks at and turns out to be delicious, what looks like an entire raw tuna artfully arranged on a platter of ice, kebabs, falafel, and of course, shwarma.

He's taking it all in, the warm feeling of having all of the people who are important to him all in one place, when he feels a hand at his shoulder.

"Steve," Tony says, eyes earnest and subdued.

Steve finds a soft, fond smile for the man who had been his friend, his enemy, his ally, and greatest frustration. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Tony shrugs, and they both look over at Bucky.

"He's -" Steve starts, then shrugs. "He's everything, Tony. I'm sorry."

And he is. And he hopes it's enough, because it's sincere. There's no one that will ever mean more to him than Bucky. Steve can live with the idea that maybe he's a little blind when it comes to Buck. He can't repair the past. He hopes he can build up the future, and he knows that Tony's trying. It might be more than he deserves.

The worst of his nightmares, the ones he won't even share with Bucky, are the ones where he doesn't change the arc of the shield, where he gives in to his most basic instinct and Tony pays the price.

Steve is grateful to have Tony standing here today. It's more than he thought he'd have, even a year ago.

Tony nods, and claps Steve on the shoulder. "Happy Birthday, Cap."

Something in Steve's heart twists at that. It's Tony's gift, and it might be more than Steve deserves.

"I'm glad you came, Tony."

"Well, you know, you're officially a centurion. Not often you get to go to a hundred and first birthday bash where the honoree isn't in a diaper. You're not wearing a diaper, right? Wait, nevermind. I don't want to know what you and Barnes get up to."

The laugh that bursts from Steve is deep and sincere. He throws his head back and one arm over his chest, eyes closing and breathing deep, letting his happiness bubble up from within. It feels _good_ to feel this good. It's been a long road.

When his laughter has died down to mere chuckles, he glances around and finds Sam studying him. Steve quirks a brow, but Sam just smiles and shakes his head, tipping his dark bottle of beer in Steve's direction.

Later, when Steve is moaning over a chocolate chip peanut butter cookie, he catches Sam grinning at him, again and again.

"You were right, man. These cookies!"

"Yeah, I know," Sam says, a soft smile on his face.

"What?" Steve asks.

Shaking his head, Sam says "nothing."

"No," Steve says, straightening. "What is it?"

Sam shrugs. "You figured it out. It's good to see."

Cocking his head, Steve looks at Sam, puzzled.

"What makes you happy," Sam says. "You figured it out. Gotta tell you, man, it's a good look on you."

Steve beams, thinking about a response, when Bucky slides his arms around Steve's waist from behind. Pressing a kiss against Steve's neck, he pulls Steve close, tight. "What are you two talking about?"

"Oh, you know," Sam says. "Life, the universe, everything."

Bucky laughs and Steve feels the vibration tickle through him.

"That was such a great book," Bucky crows, releasing Steve to come around to his side. "Did you read the sequels?"

Sam nods and Steve leaves the two of them to talk sci-fi books, again.

He takes a seat on one of the couches, sipping his beer and watching the darkening sky as his friends – his family – chatter around him.

"Great party," Nat says, taking a seat next to him.

"Thanks. Thanks, Nat. For everything."

Nat smirks then flashes one of her rate, open smiles. "Philanthropy looks good on you," she says, still smiling.

"I love it, yeah." Steve replies, because he does. Under the guise of the Makepeace Foundation, he's able to tag along on most of the Avenger's missions, ready to work the op with Maria, and then ready to help rebuild with the locals, when needed. Having a billion dollar checkbook has made Steve incredibly popular in the relief aid circles, and celebrities and corporations have all followed suit, choosing the foundation as their number one charity when they're looking for tax deductions. When Steve isn't helping to rebuild war-torn landscapes, he focuses the foundation's efforts on getting and keeping arts in the schools, as well as setting up multiple micro-loan organizations in an effort to both help people achieve their dreams as wells putting some of the more usurious paycheck advance companies out of business. In all, it's work he can feel good about. He's proud of who he is, what he does.

"Babe, they're getting ready to start!" Bucky comes over with a fresh beer and plants himself in Steve's lap, eyes to the sky.

When the first burst of fireworks light up the sky, Steve's still looking at Bucky's face, at his wide smile and apparent ease. He brings his arms around Bucky, holding him tighter, and looks up toward the night sky, once dark, but now brilliant and bursting with color.

.

Fall gives chase to the dog days of summer with cool breezes that twist into the warm sunshine. The color begins to bleed from the trees and at night, they close their windows. Deep inside of Steve, the soldier stills. Like a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye, he can't put his finger on what changes, he only knows that he feels solid, settled, in a way that he never has before.

The new feeling is strange and catches him off guard. There are days when he is anxious, nervous that he's forgotten something, some detail or task, and he paces through their apartment, waiting for something to blow up in his face. But then the feeling slinks away, and he is calm again.

He still reaches for Bucky almost every night. The way the moonlight slants through their window, it casts a glow in their bedroom and sometimes, most times, Steve is so taken by the man who's chosen to share his bed that he can't not reach for him, if only to press his mouth to Bucky's skin, his fingers pulling, touching, stroking. The desperate need doesn't drive him any longer. Bucky is here and he's real. He is flesh and bone and Steve takes his communion, there, in Bucky's skin, and he gives back his own until they are one, once again. He takes this quiet joy, thinking sometimes of the ways they'd been in the past – those first frightened, shameful kisses. The guilt and fear that swallowed that first trembling union. The desperation when they'd finally found one another once again – both of them feeling that if they could only just get inside of the other, crawl into their very skin, that they could somehow hold the other safe.

Now he takes his joy in Bucky's pleasure. He smiles against his lover's skin, all nimble fingers and teasing mouth, coaxing whines and pants and gasps, and watching Bucky surrender, watching as he becomes lost to it, and those are the moments that Steve treasures, almost as much as the mornings, when he is slow to wake and instead curls sleepy into Bucky's arms, listening to his easy breathing, feeling the warm, damp of it on his neck.

He came into his life fighting. He fought sickness and illness and grief. He fought his own nature, his own heart. He's fought monsters and men, oppression, fascism, he's fought what feels like a hundred wars.

But now, the soldier lays down his shield.

Now, the soldier is at peace.

.

.

AN: This was written for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang. All thanks go to the mods of the RBB, SulaSaferoom who created some gorgeous art that inspired this fic, and the RBB Slack, for hand-holding, cheerleading, and general awesomeness.

I'm on Ao3 and tumblr under the same name. Come say hey.


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